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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27594550">Elegy to the Void</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Startabi/pseuds/Startabi'>Startabi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prospect (2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Cum Eating, Cum Play, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Mentions of Blood, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Sex, Smut, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:01:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,275</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27594550</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Startabi/pseuds/Startabi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re an entomologist doing research on the Green when your mutinous crew abandons you for dead. Just your luck another lost soul comes to your rescue.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ezra (Prospect 2018)/Reader, Ezra (Prospect 2018)/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>184</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>All-Time Favorite Smut</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Elegy to the Void</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>literally this is just kjfhekjhr im sorry it's just a fuckin word dump of Horny</p><p>ALSO....ZeEK EARL IS SPECIFICALLY NOT ALLOWED TO LOOK AT THIS oK thANKS </p><p>www.jangofctts.tumblr.com</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>Fuck this in every which way, inside and out and fry it on a god forsaken burning stick of shit.</p><p>You’d been so <em>careful</em>.</p><p>So meticulous that you’d even went through the trouble to purchase a lock <em>for</em> the bulky padlock already <em>on</em> the safe that contained the credits. And well, look how far that’s gotten you.</p><p>You handpicked your crew just so <em>this </em>wouldn’t happen. Hell<em>—</em>your<em> best friend, </em>Mey-Linn Rahn, had been your first-mate<em>, your co-pilot. </em>The mere wisp of the idea that she’d betray you would seem laughable<em>—</em>the biggest fucking joke in the entire galaxy. Just last cycle you’d been cuddled up on your cot gossiping about nonsense and to think she—</p><p><em>Whatever</em>. It’s done. You can’t change the past no matter how much you gripe.</p><p>In retrospect, the two mercs hired for protection on The Pug was the only <em>slightly</em> questionable decision. Though, to cut <em>yourself</em> some slack, you hadn’t even been the one to personally hire them—that was the Academy’s <em>excellent</em> choice. Two highly skilled thieves who roped in your best friend and robbed you blind.</p><p>You suppose you weren’t the only one stabbed in the back—literally <em>and</em> figuratively speaking. Merrick Marsh, your fellow colleague in the Academy, co-author and arguably your only <em>true</em> friend lay dead on your right. Shot through the chest and left to choke on Dust and his own blood. You were lucky his transmitter had been trashed, sparing you the horror of <em>listening</em> to him die as you slowly regain control of your limbs.</p><p>It was a mistake you think—when Mey-Linn shot you with the tranquilizer meant for fucking <em>livestock </em>instead of the thrower. Or maybe it was some sort of jaded mercy that left no blood on her hands and instead let the moon’s inhospitable atmosphere do the work.</p><p>Regardless of whatever pushed her to the moment she pulled the trigger, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re here now. You have time to think—run through a checklist of supplies you hope they abandoned in favor of a speedy getaway, and plot a couple of revenge fantasies.</p><p>As a treat.</p><p>But nothing today works out in your favor—you’re not allowed this brief time to <em>reflect </em>and simply <em>lay</em> in the spongy foliage and pretend to know what it would feel like to be a vibrant species of native fungi. Another time maybe. </p><p>A stick snaps like thunder in the deafening silence, and that gut feeling that curdles in your insides warns you to <em>run</em>. Your heart beat kicks up in a flurry of panic as your sporadic breaths fog up the solar tinted visor. Whatever is rustling in the bushes is drawing closer, and although you’ve never <em>heard</em> of dangerous fauna on the Green, you wouldn’t be surprised if some creature with sharp teeth chose <em>you</em> as it’s dinner. It’s not completely outside the realm of complete fuckery you’ve dealt with today.</p><p>Your pulse roars, adrenaline piercing through through your gut as you race to wiggle your fingers. You can feel the thrower you were slow to draw against Mey-Linn resting by your thigh, the trigger guard a cool comfort as your fingertips hook around it. It’s like shaking off a layer of permafrost as your nerves awaken and reconnect to the synapses of your nervous system. Blood stains your tongue as your teeth prick the fragile skin of your bottom lip from the strain of wedging the textured grip-tape into your palm. </p><p>Just as you do so, a brown boot, stained beyond repair, breaks through the edge of the clearing, flattening bushels of greenery under their weight. Your breath catches in your chest as the stranger meanders closer, no doubt here to pilfer whatever field gear you hauled from camp. <em>Fucking piranhas.</em></p><p>The stranger whistles a slow tune that morphs into a bassy hum as he reaches the boots of Merrick’s body. The stranger—male judging by the timbre—clicks his tongue and kneels, his back facing you as he leans over your colleague.</p><p>“Poor bastard. Didn’t realize how deadly the Green is before diving head first into the fray.” The stranger draws—a rich laugh crackling through his transmitter. The hair on the back your neck raises into sharp points and you’re suddenly <em>grateful</em> for the tranquilizer to hide the fact that you’re still <em>alive</em>. “What’d they terminate your lugubrious life over? Money I would reckon. It’s alway the credits, ain’t it?”</p><p>From the corner of your eye you watch the man inspect the busted filter attached to Merrick’s chest. He swears under his breath and lets out a long, exhausted sigh. “A shame.”</p><p>You squeeze your eyes shut and pray the stranger can’t hear the distressed fluttering of your heart as he moves and focuses his attention on <em>you</em>. “Ah. Here we are—finally a stroke of luck—“ </p><p>The man leans over your body but before he has the chance to snatch your filter, you tilt your wrist and dig the nozzle of your thrower into the vulnerable space beneath his last rib and the tender flesh of his stomach. “<em>Touch</em> me and you <em>die</em>.” </p><p>“Oh, <em>hey</em> now, little spitfire—“ His raspy laugh crackles through the channel as he freezes, dark eyebrows shooting up in startled surprise. “You can’t blame a man for thinkin’ you were as dead as a doornail. Not after all that commotion you’ve brought upon the Green like a circus on wheels.” </p><p>Your tongue feels chunky and swollen as you swallow, trying to remember <em>how</em> to speak. To your own ears your voice sounds gritty, slurred and alien but it still carries. “You make a habit of stealing off corpses? S’bad luck, y’know.”</p><p>“Ain’t much luck out here as it is besides what a simple man can conjure up for himself, I’m afraid.” You feel his chest rise and fall in a careful breath, dark eyes searching for your face beneath the tinted glass; but all it reveals is his own reflection staring right back at him. “So you see, little spitfire—I ain’t here for pondering over the dichotomy of good an’ evil. I’m here for <em>survival </em>as it were—and you happen to possess what I so<em> desire</em>.”</p><p>Each passing second, the nerves in your arm languidly return to life. It feels the same as dunking ice cold limbs in a vat of scalding water and <em>Kevva</em> it <em>hurts </em>but your life is at stake here. You grit your teeth and press the gun deeper into the thick swath of fabric. He grunts.</p><p>“I <em>said—</em>don’t<em> touch </em>me<em>.” </em>You spit.</p><p>“I’d never squabble over a directive such as that—‘specially when you’ve rendered me affixed with your weapon. <em>But</em>—” he drawls and holy <em>fuck. </em>You can <em>barely</em> keep up. “You’re <em>mistaken</em>. I—since stumbling upon you—have not lain a single <em>finger </em>on your bestrewn being.”</p><p>He has a point. <em>Irksome</em> as it is.</p><p>“<em>Move</em> then.” Your bark, the panic in your gut spreading like a toxic mold that overtakes the cavity of your lungs.</p><p>You don’t like the way his lips purse as he considers you a second too long to deem comfortable. It’s not <em>lecherous—</em>it’s <em>calculative. </em>Weighing the odds of his life and the speed of your trigger finger.</p><p>“<em>Say—</em>why <em>is</em> it you’re layin’ among the weeds and foliage like a creature of ethereal nature, little spitfire?” Your stomach drops as his grin curls into something edged and <em>lethal</em>. “If it were my<em> lonesome</em>—I’d certainly attempt to put leagues between myself from this here fiasco. Keep runnin’ ‘till my heart bursts from strain and damn certain my feet were worn to the bone. <em>Though…</em>if you were to find yourself <em>paralyzed</em>—“</p><p>Before you even think to <em>shoot, </em>his hands move in quick succession—one over the barrel of the thrower and one around your wrist. You cry out as fiery pain drags down your arm like claws of steel as he gives a sharp yank and wrenches the weapon from your hand.</p><p>“—now <em>that</em> would be a discrepant tale indeed,” he finishes, easily swatting away your weak attempt at throwing a punch. Your pulse drums in your ears as the man lazily rests the nozzle of your thrower over your sternum. “However did you find yourself in this predicament? Hopefully not due to an injury involving a breakage of your spine.”</p><p>“Tranquilizer,” you snap. “It’ll wear off soon.”</p><p>His brows raise as he pensively bobs his head. “A serendipitous day for you then, friend. I’d hate to be the one to put an end to your imagined suffering—it’s been quite some time since I’ve had another soul to converse with.”</p><p>You bite back a flood of insults that would most certainly assure a ticket to your own funeral.</p><p>You startle as the man exhales and abruptly gasps. “Oh! How impolite of me,” he chortles, “I cannot <em>believe</em> I have yet to introduce myself. Name’s Ezra and it is an upmost <em>delight</em> to make your acquaintance.”</p><p>The <em>fuck</em> is this guy on?</p><p>“Not the most talkative, are you?” The man—<em>Ezra—</em>notes. “A cut and dry type of person—I get it. I’ll jump straight to the point then. Where’s your pod?”</p><p>“Ship—“ You bitterly correct. It wasn’t some meager <em>pod</em>. “And <em>stolen</em>. Now fuck off and find someone else to torture.”</p><p>“Hush now, no need to be discourteous,” he chuckles, not all phased by the poison in your voice. “And you’re breakin’ my heart with that sort of slander. There must be <em>something</em> you folks left behind.”</p><p>“I don’t know.” You say. “I’ve been a bit <em>busy</em> today.”</p><p>Ezra licks his lips and cocks his head, gesturing to the woods. “Anymore of your pals running around waiting to sabotage me while I have my back turned?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>.” That you can answer with confidence.</p><p>“Well, isn’t that just <em>creamy</em>.” Ezra lowers the nozzle of your thrower and tosses you a boyish grin. “Just you and me then?”</p><p>You grunt at the effort of swinging your deadweight arm into another pathetic punch. He bats it away and clicks his tongue. “We could both benefit by forming a temporary alliance, you know.”</p><p>“<em>Liar</em>,” you growl, breathing in relief as the numbness recedes out of your shoulders. “You just want my filter. But guess what? You’re gonna have to <em>kill</em> me for it.”</p><p>Ezra snorts. “I’m trying to offer you a way <em>out</em> of dying, friend.”</p><p>Maybe he’s right. You have no idea how to survive out here and he’s all but offering himself up on a silver platter. It could be a ploy for all you know, but hey—desperate times call for questionable decisions. “Alright, <em>Ezra</em>. I’ll bite—what do you want?”</p><p>“Oh nothing much,” the man smiles, his gloved thumbs tracing the grooves engraved on the nozzle of your thrower. “The deal I’m to offer you is reasonable—it’d ensure both our survivalwhether we decide to part ways or stick together. You lead me to your encampment and we split the resources two ways even.”</p><p>“I don’t trust <em>snakes,” </em>you huff. “You’re going to shoot me in the back the second you get the chance.”</p><p>He has the gall to roll his eyes. “Not all serpents are out to fill your veins with venom, little spitfire.”</p><p>You narrow your eyes. He looks…genuine…Your experience with the people in the Reaches and the Fringes are <em>limited </em>and you’re better educated than to classify them <em>all</em> as scrappy ruffians no better than gutter rats. Desperation lurks through every ring of his earthy brown irises and judging by how eager he is to keep you chatting, you’d guess he’s been trapped here for a <em>long</em> while. Just another ill-fated being dealt all the wrong and wretched cards that you yourself are stuck with now. </p><p>“What if I have nothing to offer? My crew could’ve taken everything.”</p><p>He hums, and studies the toes of his muddied boots. “We’ll cross that juncture if we reach it.”</p><p>Well. Worst case he kills you, best case you’re left with half rations and an opportunity for the Academy to rescue your sorry ass. You’d be a grade A <em>clown</em> trusting him and a part of you still howls at you to <em>run</em>, but you raise your arm regardless and extend your gloved hand. “<em>Fine</em>. It’s a deal.”</p><p>His pearly white teeth flash with another smile. Ezra clasps his hand with yours and shakes. “<em>Deal</em>.”</p><p>Much to your chagrin, it takes an hour or so for the tranquilizer to metabolize enough for you to move your legs. <em>Meaning, </em>you’re stuck with overly zealous man who’s a living, breathing, <em>tome</em> of poetic nightmares. Reminds you a bit of the senior scholars, wrinkly as prunes, cooped up in the library, griping and bickering over the meaning of moldy grapes written in as a throwaway line in a literary classic.</p><p>You’re not <em>thrilled</em> about it—there’s a reason you chose science over literature. Everything in your field has an answer. Sure, the calculations and tribulations can be muddy and difficult but you’ll always find the answer at the end of the day. The arts tend to twist and fold into manic theories and drunken conspiracies that hold no weight or end to them. Not practical. But neither is <em>this</em>—galavanting through the Green on partially numb legs with some <em>rando</em> you met chatting your ear off.</p><p>Never in your life did you think a stark white tent peeking through the underbrush would bring you near to <em>tears</em>.</p><p>Your crew chose the speedy getaway. Crates of supplies and gear are still piled around the research tent—food, filters, you name it. It could last you an entire year if managed properly. </p><p>Ezra whistles and shakes his head. “My—this may just bring a grown man to tears. This is truly salvation.”</p><p>You bite back your urge to <em>nag</em> as Ezra hurries to the tent, pulling the thick tarp and heavy padding back to enter. You have <em>specimens</em> in there, ranging from odd insects and bioluminescent plants and <em>fuck it.</em> Doesn’t <em>matter</em>.</p><p>You follow him in just as he moves his hands up to take his helmet off—an old model of suit—like a repurposed garbage bag fixed together with patches of leather and flexitube. You kick yourself that the slow reveal of shaggy brown hair and olive, sun kissed skin fires your heart into a troublesome skip. A blush, fever-hot, rushes up your neck and blazes in your cheeks as Ezra faces you.</p><p>There’s a thin scar over his cheek you note—and a patch of blonde hair that sticks out sorta funny against the rich brown. Your move your tongue along the roof your palette—when did your mouth get so <em>dry?</em> </p><p>“You just gonna stand there, petrified and affixed?” He goads, setting his helmet over the sea of papers on Merrick’s desk. “I promise I don’t bite.”</p><p>With a grumble you reach for the clasps on your helmet and pull. Oxygen hisses out and then you’re just as bare faced as he is.</p><p><em>Wise</em> of him not to comment on the absolute dumpster fire mess of helmet hair you’ve got going on. There’s a brief flicker of <em>something</em> in his eyes, but it’s much to fleeting to pin down and analyze. You’re not sure you even <em>want</em> to skirt along that dangerous edge—too many other things to worry about. </p><p>Besides, Ezra’s already onto the next mildly entertaining thing—riffling through papers and studying the vats of plants and bugs around the room. You cringe when his curious exploring settles on the strung up sketches. Your renditions of Merrick’s samples and of your own study pool of the multi-legged creatures you dedicate your life to.</p><p>“You draw these?” Ezra asks, pulling the printed cardstock of a rather fetching beetle off of the close pin line. His shoulders bounce with an incredulous scoff. “You traveled across the entire star system to paint a bug?” </p><p>“Im an <em>entomologist</em>—“ You interject hotly, snatching the rendition out of his grubby fingers. “I’m here to <em>study </em>them. Not everyone like stupid rocks, y’know.<em>”</em></p><p>His goofy grin makes your blood boil. You’ve had <em>enough</em> of stuck up acolytes shit on your work and now <em>him? </em>Your life is a goddamn <em>joke. </em>“<em>Ah</em>, a devotee of the creepy crawlies. Can’t say I hold any warmth for the subject, but it can have its fascinating merits.”</p><p>You growl in frustration as he plucks another sketch off the line. “Just—just quit touching my stuff.”</p><p>Your request is shrugged off <em>multiple</em> times in the following hours as you begin to split and sort through supplies. You leave the insides of the tent to pick apart last—easier to focus on hauling and lifting crates without acknowledging that your friend is dead.</p><p>Unfortunately there’s only so many crates to sort and packets of instant oatmeal to squabble over. You’re thrust face to face with tearing down your life long project—a screeching halt to all your research and dedication until who <em>knows</em> when. Fuck—<em>this</em> is where you’re going to die, isn’t it?</p><p>Why would the Academy send anyone back for you? It’s a waste of resources on expendable people. The most they would do is track down the ship and arrest your crew—not exactly helpful for your current predicament. </p><p>You step back into the tent and remove your helmet again.You <em>want</em> to cry—you can feel your throat tighten and your eyes start to itch, and given the recent series of traumatic events, you have every <em>right</em> to burst into frantic bawling. Weird how that works—your whole world flipped up and inside out and yet you can’t even shed a single tear.</p><p>Your body feels numb, and not just just because of the residual tranquilizer in your system—it’s like running on autopilot—throwing datapacks and charts into cases, priming the specimens for release while Ezra chitters on. You pause and frown as your fingers wrap around the little pocket photo of Merrick and you.</p><p>A snapshot of the night your first research article had been accepted by the Board and published. Your teeth clench. Just two gawky kids back then, swimming in a mountain of academic debt and faulty wishes.</p><p>You jump as you feel a hand ghost over the small of your back, there for a split second before retreating. </p><p>“I’m dully apologetic over the untimely death of your lover,” Ezra sighs, spying over your shoulder.</p><p>“<em>Lover?”</em></p><p>“Was I mistaken?” He asks, quirking a brow. </p><p>You’d thought about it <em>sure</em>. Working in a cramped, shared lab on a collaborative project all hours of the day and into the night nearly always lead into stray thoughts of <em>what if’s</em> and <em>maybes</em>. It didn’t hurt that Merrick had been easy on the eyes—flame red hair that stuck out at odd angles, millions of freckles splattered across his pale skin and topped off with a nice smile and adorably crooked teeth. </p><p>You flush and shove the photograph you still hold into a pocket. “He was my <em>colleague</em> at the Academy. Nothing more.”</p><p>His lips quirk. “Nothing wrong with a little workplace paramour, Spitfire.”</p><p>Your nose crinkles. “Ew.”</p><p>You sigh and shove past him, yanking on your helmet sitting by the tent flaps. “Everything’s packed. Take your cut and get out of here.” </p><p>“Now <em>wait</em>—“ You hear Ezra shuffle around and pop out a moment later. “Hold on just a tick.” </p><p>You turn on your heel and shove a finger into his chest. “You got what you wanted—so <em>leave</em>.”</p><p>“We can stick together. Just for a couple days—until you find a foothold in this hell,” Ezra presses, holding his hands up in defense. “Kevva <em>knows, </em>when I was abandoned here I was more lost than a lamb in a den of wolves.” </p><p>Once again, he’s right. The skeptical side of you wonders what his angle is, but Ezra is no fool.</p><p>“I ain’t trying anything funny,” he assures with a careful smile. “But, truth be told, you’re gonna go batshit crazy livin’ out here alone. <em>Trust</em> me.”</p><p>You close your eyes and mutter a curse under your breath.</p><p>“If not for the sake of your sanity, I’m willing to let you partake in a cut of my profits.” You watch his throat bob. Ezra’s words are beginning to dip into frantic desperation and while <em>flattering</em>, you don’t trust him. “Listen—I can even return your thrower if that offers you any solace.”</p><p>He’s grasping at straws now and whether you call it profiting off misery or just the lack of braincells—you agree.</p><p><em>One</em> night won’t hurt and the thought of braving it out in a flimsy tent instead of a ship…<em>alone—</em>yikes. No thank you. You’ll take your chances with Ezra.</p><p>And like he promises, he returns your thrower. Doesn’t even complain when you keep it trained on his back the whole half mile trek to his base.</p><p>Maybe—just <em>maybe </em>you were expecting this place to resemble a serial killer’s liar…but it’s <em>cozy</em> in here. Fairy lights are strung up in every corner, illuminating the crates of Bits Bars and the four poster bunk beds. Ezra’s spare clothes are strung up by the tiny space heater—his suit quick to join the disarray.</p><p>Your eyes don’t leave the man as you tentatively place the thrower on the floor and wiggle out of your suit. </p><p>“Ain’t much, but it’s home,” Ezra says in a low drawl. “Those cots over there are free for taking.”</p><p>To fill the awkward silence and the strange tension of you just…lurking in the corner, waiting for an attack that will never come, Ezra starts to hum. It’s a little ditty—folksy and familiar despite never hearing the tune. He takes a seat at the little table shoved into the corner and produces a small stack of papers, thumbing through the pages, pointedly ignoring you so you’d be enticed further into the tent. </p><p>You gingerly seat yourself on the rickety cot and side eye the papers he holds and <em>hey</em>—</p><p>Your goddamn <em>bug</em> vector illustrations—when the ever loving <em>fuck</em> did he manage to swipe those?</p><p><em>Weirdo</em>.</p><p>You scowl and slump into the cot. <em>Fine</em>. Let him have your stupid drawings—you just…don’t expect him to study them for what seems like <em>hours</em>. Rubbing his patchy haired chin and bottom lip in fascination at each illustration he uncovers. There’s nothing to fawn over—anyone can do vectors, but that doesn’t dampen the little spark of pride in your chest in the least bit.</p><p>Your plan was to wait until he fell asleep—as a <em>precaution—</em>but during the time between sitting down and eyeing him suspiciously, exhaustion latched it’s claws into your being and pulled you into unconsciousness.</p><p>When you wake he offers you lukewarm coffee and a Bits Bar. Morning pleasantries that Ezra goes out of his way to provide.</p><p>You’re a fool for thinking you’d ever muster the courage to split and live on your own.</p><p>Just <em>one night</em> turns into two, then three, that jumps into a month. Ezra teaches you how to mine aurelac—<em>well, </em>you <em>watch</em> as he sticks his hand into those weird, fleshy pits of <em>whatever</em> the fuck they are. They <em>stink </em>and why anyone would <em>want</em> to buy it is far beyond you. </p><p>Call you a prude or just your severely sheltered upbringing in the Ephorate, but there was no use for pretty things. You survived based on the sharpness of your mind and cunning ploys to jump ahead to be selected for the Academy—it’s the reason why you think, that you find Ezra to be the pinnacle of intrigue.</p><p>Ezra, just on his own, is an oddity in itself—his weird manner of speech, his complete disregard of personal space, to list a few that come to mind. You just—can’t wrap your head around the fact that he genuinely <em>enjoys</em> playing in the dirt or sticking his hand into volatile deposits for the thrill of it.</p><p>You come from a world of competition where each extension of yourself is tested and strung out to be exploited by society. There was no room to be unabashedly <em>yourself</em>. Your proprieties that border being <em>stringent</em> are hammered into your bones like steel platting reinforcing creaky joints—you didn’t ask to become this. </p><p>You <em>envy</em> him, and although you know this, you’re equally <em>terrified</em>. </p><p>With every gentle touch, every throwaway compliment, is like acid enzyme to stone. He’s leaving you threadbare and wanting to embrace the world the same way Icarus did with his wings of wax. Fearless enough to touch the sun even if you’re destined to plunge into the deep sea far below.</p><p>He doesn’t even know how willing you are to lay yourself at his feet and offer up the sacrificial knife—and you’re too much of a coward to tell him. </p><p> </p><p>-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-</p><p> </p><p>It’s the eve that marks the sixth week you’ve been here. It’s one of those nights, heavy with the pain of the past. You’re quiet in the same way a rusty switchblade is drawn in the hollow light of dawn and he’s learned to sit in silence when you get like this. Ezra offers a metaphorical hand in hopes you take it, and most times he finds that you’d rather bat it away and sleep off the sad then to accept help.</p><p>He can’t place his finger on why tonight is different—how it doesn’t take the effort of wedging a crowbar into your soul just to get you to <em>talk</em>.</p><p>But tonight, unprompted, your words bubble out like you’re finally tired of holding everything <em>in</em>. <em>Finally </em>you allow him to hold some of your closely coveted trust—you don’t talk about what conspired all those weeks ago when he met you. <em>No</em>, you prefer to talk about the life you were ripped away from—he can commiserate. </p><p>“I miss coffee—“ you say and before he can interject that you <em>do</em> have coffee you cut him off with a glare. “<em>Real</em> coffee, Ezra. Not that instant shit. And chocolate and music that doesn’t fucking tweak out every two seconds.”</p><p>He sighs and watches you throw up your hands. “<em>Fuck—</em>I don’t know <em>how</em> you fucking do it. I even miss those <em>horrendous </em>faculty meetings back at the Academy.” </p><p>Ezra rolls his eyes and scoffs. Prospecting isn’t the kindest of jobs—you need to dive head first into learning how to be <em>alone</em> or you’ll spin into madness the first time you’re abandoned for a half stash of <em>rock</em>. “It ain’t so bad.”</p><p>You turn your head and shoot him an incredulous look. “You’re a liar. Even a hermit would choose a crowd over <em>this</em>.” </p><p>“If it’s any consolidation to quell your nerves, my head ain’t screwed on as tightly as the company you keep back home.” He laughs, rubbing his palms up and down his stiff thighs that’ll surely be sore in the morning. “I’m accustomed to spending long, arduous stretches of time by my lonesome.” </p><p>You hum and let your eyes drift back to the pointed slopes of the tarp overhead. Thoughtful silence blankets the space and he can <em>see</em> the gears shifting and turning in that wondrous little head of yours. The muscles in your jaw jump as you clench and unclench your teeth, wrestling with words that struggle to form. You overthink too much.</p><p>Just when he believes you’ve given up, he hears you ask, “Doesn’t it get…lonely?”</p><p>He cocks a brow as you clear your throat. “Y’know, like—like…when you…<em>y’know</em>.”</p><p>“I’m afraid I’m not entirely following your train of thought, Spitfire.”</p><p>Sweat beads at your hairline, your throat bobbing as you swallow and shift on the thin sheets that crinkle under your weight. Despite the awkward hole you’ve dug yourself into, it still amuses him to the point where he needs to bite his bottom lip to hide his smile. </p><p>You wince and rub your thumb roughly over the slopes of your knuckles—a nervous tic—one he often catches you doing as of late. “Well, like—when you don’t have anyone to, uh…<em>talk</em> to.”</p><p><em>Oh</em>.</p><p>Ezra understands now.</p><p>Sure, he could grant you mercy—he’d be a liar if he said he hadn’t wanted this to happen for some time now. You’re easy on the eyes, finer than any auerlac he’s ever had the fortune to find and yes<em>—maybe </em>everything is distorted by this ghastly moon comparable to Purgatory, but the results still don’t settle for anything less than what blooms, dazzling and bright, inside the cavity of his chest. You’re a breath of fresh air—a volatile catalyst with the aptitude of staying in step with his maddening rambles of useless verse and philosophical ponderances that would cause Socrates <em>himself</em> a migraine.</p><p>It’s the exact reason why he never risked scaring you away. He sidelined each flirtation despite them crackling like refined lightning behind closed lips, metastasizing in his veins until it feels like he’s about to explode from the pressure. Ezra doesn’t shy away from the fact that you’re the best <em>goddamn</em> thing to ever bless the entirety of his existence and he’s not willing to jeopardize any of it. </p><p>Right this moment he could jump the gun and toss himself straight into the void of unsightly sin and head-spinning ecstasy. <em>Shit</em>—you’re the one that’s throwing open that gate all by yourself, but he holds on to the bare threads of his restraint and pushes you to voice it out loud. After all, it’s a bit <em>rude</em> to announce your affections for someone who has no other choice than to be stuck with you in a cramped tent on a far off moon.</p><p>You clear your throat again. “Like, when you miss…<em>being</em> with people<em>. </em>How do you—how do you <em>deal</em> with that?”</p><p>He quirks a brow, witnesses your whole line of questioning crash and burn into a pile of junk. You’re lucky he decides to offer you salvation. </p><p>“Are you asking how I get off?”</p><p>His frankness startles you.</p><p>The solar lights paint your cheeks a soft orange, carving out the dips and slopes of your face with dramatic shadow as you look at him wide-eyed and hesitant. Ezra puffs up his cheeks and deflates them with a hiss of air, his whole chest seizing up like he’s breathing in lungfuls of Dust with no filter.</p><p>You’re the spitting image of one of those invaluable oil paintings hung on the walls of far off royalty and affluent folk. He’d never had a taste for the fine arts—preferred things he could <em>touch, </em>feel and roll around in his palms without fear of it shattering or tearing. What’s the point of something beautiful if you aren’t able to worship it with all the senses given to mankind? </p><p>But gazing upon your unperturbed figure—he’s inclined to change his mind.</p><p>“Would you like to watch?” He offers and manages to come across as <em>casual</em> despite his heart thrashing so firmly against his ribcage it might just rupture. “I don’t mind putting on a private exhibition for an inquisitive audience.”</p><p>You look at him like he’s sprouted four heads and a set of wings doused in jet fuel and set ablaze. Your jaw works up and down, the words stuck in your throat jumping like a scratched record player. You throw an arm over your eyes and roll onto your side with a pitiful whine. “That’s not funny, Ezra.”</p><p>His eyes linger on the patch of skin your rumpled shirt doesn’t cover and he’s reminded just how much he <em>aches</em> to touch you. Whisper his fingertips down each vertebrae, the curve of your spine and the swell of your hips until his hands are stained with your divinity. He bites his tongue to keep from spilling forth an avalanche of reasons why you belong in his arms and not over there on your little, cramped cot.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>He needs to be <em>gentle</em> with you. He calls you Spitfire, and <em>yes; </em>your heart burns brighter than every star that punches through the vast darkness of space, but you’re <em>nothing</em> like the fire that scorches the earth and leaves a path of charred destruction to remember it by. You’re the <em>moonlight—</em>the fresh scent of midnight rain as thunder still grumbles in billowing storm clouds and the familiar light that spills into windowsills and slices through nighttime terrors with the affirmation that there will always be a tomorrow. You are not meant to be handled by hands soiled by sin and years of blisters turned callous, and yet…he hopes you won’t mind. </p><p>“Wasn’t trying to be,” he pushes, a ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth when you peek over your shoulder. “I’m not keen on playing the court room jester for tonight, girlie.” </p><p>You study him like you do with your little creatures with crystalline wings and a million kaleidoscope eyes. A mystery—a puzzle to pick apart with tweezers and dedicated curiosity. A <em>dangerous</em> duo, but he’s willing to face the point of a razor sharp scalpel primed for dissection. </p><p>“You’re—you’re <em>serious,” </em>you stutter.  </p><p>He tilts his head a cocks a brow. “I’d never lie to you. I’m a man of many things, but never a dishonest one.”</p><p>Your lips purse into a thin line.</p><p>“We don’t have to lay a finger on each other.”</p><p>You roll back flat and rub at your knuckles.</p><p>He digs the blade of his argument just a little deeper—feels the cracks in your resolve begin to splinter. “You can just sit there and look pretty for me, yeah? <em>Or—</em>as an alternative to these maladroit circumstances—we could forget this happened. Water under the bridge so to speak.”</p><p>You blink a couple of times and sluggishly shake your head. “I-I don’t wanna forget.”</p><p>Ezra steadies the bubbling excitement in his chest and fronts with a delicate smile. He rubs his chin between his forefinger and thumb, fabricating pensiveness before tossing himself to your mercies. “There’s no need for such a thing, my dear. You need only ask me.”</p><p>“Y-yeah, ok,” you agree softly. “I think I’d like that.”</p><p>His warm laugh fills the tiny space. “Your wish is my command, girlie.”</p><p>Ezra settles himself closer to the edge of the cot and leans against the flimsy post. Not the most comfortable—it strains his lower back and the metal railing is unforgiving against his shoulder, but he focuses on the present task at hand to distract him. He spreads his legs a tick wider, fixing himself upon a silver platter for your quizzical zeal.</p><p>A dark thrill rushes down his spinal cord as your attention drops to his hand that inches down the front of his compression pants. Consider his ego <em>stroked</em> that you can’t look away, curiosity and the beginnings of arousal burning through your eyes like deadly wildfire. You chew your bottom lip and clench your fist as he hooks his thumb into his waistband and pulls them down, <em>slow</em> as molasses.</p><p>It <em>is</em> a performance after all.</p><p>The fabric lightly scrapes over his cock and pools around his ankles as he maneuvers himself free,. He’s half hard already, twitching in response when he hears your breath hitch. Ezra shoots you a shit-eating grin and rubs the inside of his hip before smoothing his palm to the inside of his thigh. He doesn’t need to tease—it does <em>him</em> no good, only makes the ache worse—but <em>fuck</em>, if he doesn’t delight in the way you <em>squirm</em>.</p><p>Ezra drags the tips of his fingers up his groin, palms his balls for a moment before finally wrapping his hand around himself. His head tilts back against the bedpost involuntarily as a relieved moan spills from his lips. It’s been so <em>long</em>.</p><p>As much as he adores your company, there’s never any time <em>away</em> from you. He could’ve waited for you to fall asleep, and in the wee hours of night take care of that itch; but once his head hits his pillow that’s seen better days, exhaustion knocks him clean off his feet. Besides, Ezra couldn’t promise he could <em>stay</em> quiet—never wanted to force your participation into an ill-timed bout of fermented discomfort caused by his own inability to keep his hands still and holy like the purest of saints.</p><p>Now—<em>now</em> you’re <em>asking</em> him to <em>show</em> you—spectate how quickly his cock hardens to its full glory in his calloused hand all for <em>you</em>. Ezra’s pulse thrums in his ears as he rolls his wrist and strokes his length, stiffer than fucking <em>steel</em> and straining towards his navel as you watch with wide eyes, still frozen on the cot.</p><p>He lets his attention drift to your lips, plush and a little chapped, and one day destined to meet his with the discordant symphony of the cosmos above and the sweetness of your skin. His eyes sink lower, following the graceful line of your throat and to the swell of your breasts covered with only a ratty tank top. His cock jumps in his grip at the thought of you bare—a glorious sight that not even the gods deserved to witness. He thinks how soft your your skin would be, how tantalizing to embed the evidence of his lips and teeth onto the curve of your throat, the swell of your hips and inner thighs. <em>Fuck</em>—</p><p>Beads of precum pool over the tip of his cock and dribble down, coating his knuckles with sticky wetness and easing the friction of his pace. Everything goes a bit fuzzy for a moment and he <em>hears</em> himself talking and <em>feels</em> his vocal cords hum in his throat—but it’s like watching through a screen while his body moves on auto-pilot.</p><p>It doesn’t matter what he says—it elicits the reaction he <em>wants</em>.</p><p>Your eyes, practically glued <em>permanently</em> between his legs, jump to meet his and it’s <em>instantaneous. </em>Like an open flame to magnesium, it blinds him and he has to bite his bottom lip until it stings to keep himself from spilling so soon. Ezra heaves in air as he squeezes the base of his cock and rides out the threatening surges of release even if it fucking <em>hurts</em> to deny himself.</p><p>When the room stops spinning and he loosens his hold on his throbbing cock, you’re no longer a petrified statue. You’re fidgeting—rubbing your thighs together as your teeth chew the inside of your cheeks, frazzled and so keyed up that he swears you’re buzzing.</p><p>Ezra begins to pump himself, languid and soft to ward off his orgasm and Kevva <em>help</em> him he’s brought sickeningly close <em>again</em> when he hears your broken whimper. Your eyes are squeezed shut as your fists clench the bedding in a death grip. He doesn’t know why you torture yourself like this—there’s no shame in feeling <em>good</em>. </p><p>He purrs your name.</p><p>You shudder.</p><p>“No—no need to be in such <em>anguish</em>, sweetheart,” he coos, his lips curling into a blissed out grin. “By all means, go ahead and partake in your own gratifying endeavors. I could even close my eyes if it’s more to your comfort.”</p><p>Your face twists in hesitance and though it disappoints him, he slips his eyes shut to make good on that promise.</p><p>“<em>Wait</em>.” You rasp. Never has his eyes opened so rapidly. “Y-you don’t have to. You can, um—look…”</p><p>Ezra sucks in a breath and chuckles. “Alright, Spitfire.”</p><p>You swallow and hook your fingers into your pants and drag them off, your bare legs revealed inch by glorious inch to Ezra’s greedy satisfaction. Your underwear follows and although your feet are still facing towards the end of the cot, he spots your arousal smeared on your inner thigh as you bend your legs to shake off the offending article of clothing. You glance at him with uncertainty as your hands fiddles with the hem of your shirt and Ezra jumps to remedy that discomfort with surefire ease and a wink.</p><p>Ezra moans as he takes him thumb and forefinger and rubs tight little strokes under the tip of his cock and his frenulum. The moment you fall apart is one he’ll never consign to oblivion—your sharp eyes, quick and vibrant, gloss over with the hazy rush of endorphins and ecstasy and he <em>knows</em> he has you now. Wound tightly around his pinkie finger with no intention to let you escape.</p><p>Your hand disappears into the apex of your thighs, your lips parting in a silent cry as you touch yourself. He can hear how wet you are and your fucked out face is <em>delicious</em>, but he needs <em>more</em>. </p><p>“Why don’t you face me, little spitfire,” Ezra asks with a coating sweeter than powdered sugar. “Let me see you.”</p><p>You nod and maneuver yourself to the edge of the mattress, propping yourself up with one elbow as you bend your knees. With a little more prompting and gentle crooning he persuades you to uncross your ankles to reveal your dripping cunt.</p><p>“<em>Yeah—</em>there we are,” He grunts, his cock jumping at the sight of you, unfurling for him like the sweetest of flowers touched by the soft light of dawn. “Open those pretty legs a <em>tick</em> wider—Kevva <em>above</em> aren’t you the most fetching thing a man could salivate over.” </p><p>“<em>Ezra,” </em>you groan. Your fingertips find your swollen clit, hips jolting as you circle the little bundle of nerves. You whimper out his name a second time and part your lower lips, teasingly sliding them through the velvety folds.</p><p>He grunts and fists his cock faster—he’s close, he can feel the swell tickle up his spine and pool in his groin, hotter than hellfire and downed with a shot of whiskey. His eyes are trained on your cunt, clenching around nothing as you focus all your energy over your clit. Next time—if there is one—he wants to taste you—bury his tongue deep into your pussy until you shake and cry when you cum into his mouth.</p><p>His imaginations run rampant as you both work yourselves higher into a blissful stupor. He wants you on your knees, soft mouth pliant and willing to swallow him down. Or maybe he’d have you on all fours, begging for him to bury his thick cock into your aching center. You could ride him—he’d happily let you if you asked.</p><p>Ezra strings together a jumble of curses and squeezes his cock, flushed purple and leaking onto the cot. “<em>Fuck, </em>sweetheart<em>—</em>I won’t last much longer.”</p><p>“That’s o-ok,” comes your breathy response. “Wh-what do you wanna…see?”</p><p>His lips curl into a dangerous smirk. “I want to see you split over my cock until you <em>sing</em> for me. Make all those tiny gasps and groans in my ear—you’re real sight for sore eyes like this, y’know that?”</p><p>You choke on your own air and tip your head back onto your shoulders. His control slips from his fingers the second you plunge two digits up to the second knuckle into your slick hole, palm rocking against your clit to chase after your own peak. </p><p>Everything seizes up so fucking <em>tight—</em>a knockout punch that collides with his temple and rattles the very foundation of who he is. He’s spinning out of orbit, hanging on by his mere fingertips as white-hot lightning crackles across his vision, down his spine and all the way down to his toes. He launches off the edge and drops with devastating finality as you cry out his name.</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>—f-fucking <em>shit—“ </em>Ezra hunches over, a mess of curses and cutoff praise as he cums. His hips fuck into his fist as hot ropes of his cum spurt over his hand, spattering up his navel and over his inner thighs.</p><p>His breath is harsh in his ears as the world spins around him—his heart close to ripping free from his chest from the sheer force of it’s collision against his ribs. His left hand shakes as he runs it through his bedraggled hair, scrapping up the bravery to open his eyes because <em>holy fuck—</em>he swears it’s the closest he’s ever been to catapulting off this mortal coil.</p><p>It’s a goddamn shame he thinks, that he wasn’t able to watch you dissolve. He catches only the aftermath—curled up and jittering from the force of orgasm. Your chest rises and falls with quick little pants, your brows furrowed low as you recover. </p><p>Your eyes lazily slide open upon hearing his words, still a breathy rasp. “Seems I’ve made a mighty damn mess—sure as shit would be a shame to remain like this.”</p><p>He’s thrilled when you immediately beckon him over. Ezra wobbles over and drops to his knees. He swipes his middle and forefinger over his bare hip, gathering up the sticky globs of his load and bringing it to you pliant lips. He groans as your mouth parts around his digits, eagerly cleaning off his fingers until he’s satisfied.</p><p>You’re a <em>vision</em>.</p><p>“Ezra...”</p><p>“Hush, sweet girl,” He cups your cheek and plants a tender kiss over the crown of your forehead. “We can save our idle chatter for morning. Rest those heavenly eyes—we have all the time in the universe to indulge in titillating festivities.”</p><p>Ezra can regale a thousand and one sonnets just on the euphoria it gives him to witness your sleepy half smile—a hundred ballads on the sweep of your lashes as your eyes flutter shut at his request. On the brink of sleep, you take his hand into yours and the gravity of it makes every moon ache with want.</p><p> </p><p>-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-</p><p> </p><p>You <em>detest</em> mornings.</p><p>Who even invented them anyway? Just a sick fucking capitalist ploy to—</p><p>A hand, gentle and warm settles itself over your shoulder. The owner of said hand, leans over your cot and scrunched up self, and nuzzles his nose into the sensitive skin between your neck and jaw. You shy away at the prickle of his beard. Goosebumps race up your spine as Ezra places a sweet kiss to your cheekbone and then over the shell of your ear. It tickles when he tucks a stray piece of your hair back behind the cartilage.</p><p>You grunt and cuddle deeper into your blankets. “Sleeping, Ez…go ‘way.” </p><p>His raspy chuckle warms your heart. “Good morning to you as well, precious thing.”</p><p>Ezra plants a second kiss to your ear and then another…and <em>another</em>. You jolt as the hard enamel of his teeth pinch your earlobe. “S..stop…<em>fellating</em> m’ear.”</p><p>He laughs. “I was going to ask if you had a hankerin’ for coffee…but if you—“</p><p>You roll over with a moan and pout. “Noooo…’m up—I’m up.”</p><p>Ezra hums, kisses your cheek and steps away. Your sleep addled brain isn’t quick enough to tell him that he missed.</p><p>After motivating yourself to <em>actually</em> get up, cocooned in blankets and looking like a close relative of a slug, you’re not granted any leeway to lounge. The day is spent the same—suiting up, priming the enzymes and gear to—<em>yup</em>, you guessed it—mine aurelac. Keeps his hands busy and mind distracted, Ezra once explained. No use twiddling your thumbs and sitting like ducks before a tornado of misery and existentialism arrives.</p><p>But today is by far the worst of it.</p><p>You sit on the berm overlooking a deposit, cradling the enzymes and clippers for Ezra, and <em>yeah—</em>you<em> should </em>be paying a bit more attention considering one drop of the enzyme into the deposits could blow you both to bits—but, Kevva help you, Ezra is <em>pretty</em>.</p><p>He leans back onto his knees and tilts his head, quirking an expectant brow. “Clippers, please?”</p><p>You blink rapidly and scramble to hand him the tool. “Sorry—“</p><p>“What’s got your mind in a twist?” He purrs through the transmitter, sinking back down to reach for the aurelac sac. Ezra clips the cord and hands you the squishy deposit. You make a face. “Somethin’ <em>jerking</em> your chain?”</p><p>You make a noise of disgust as your cheeks burn with a blush. “<em>No.”</em></p><p><em>“</em>O’course<em>,” </em>he agrees, your embarrassment a wonderful source of amusement for his absolute <em>pea</em> brain. “Wanna know what <em>I’m</em> ruminating over?”</p><p>You swallow. “Do I really <em>want</em> to?”</p><p>He bobs his head and climbs up the berm to sit beside you. He pries the bottle of enzymes out of your hands, sets it aside and leans in close. The glass of your helmets clink together, but the sentiment isn’t lost. “I was just thinkin’, how sublime your legs would look entangled around my waist.”</p><p>Your breath catches, a blaze of liquid heat racing down your spine to settle in your core. Ezra smirks and spiders a hand up your knee. His fingers trace a light circle then sweep up to cup the inside of your thigh and <em>squeeze</em>. Ezra’s wistful sigh crackles like static through your earpiece. “Darlin’, I burn to keep you near.”</p><p>He retreats just as quick as he arrived—the three sixty shift like dousing your overheated body into a vat of ice water. You blink stupidly as he packs up. <em>Bastard</em>.</p><p>“Time’s a wasting,” Ezra announces. “I’d like to be back home by supper—I ain’t a fan of working in the dark.”</p><p>You follow him the rest of the day in a daze—plagued by the need to either fuck him or punch him. Perhaps both.</p><p> </p><p>-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-</p><p> </p><p>You make it back to the tent just as the neighboring planet slips beneath the skyline, casting the planet in highlights of brilliant gold and hazy oranges. You’d sit and watch under normal circumstances but your fingers itch to rip off this <em>damned</em> suit. It’s hot and stuffy, your feet <em>hurt</em>, and the growing ache between your legs just adds on to that growing stack of annoyances.</p><p>Why, you think, that the second you rip off your suit and lazily slump onto your cot, that Ezra would cut right to the chase is beyond you. You know him better than that. He’s a fan of sweet denial, hovering the edge between pure agony and desire—ever so patient and meticulous at tearing you apart like a knife through cotton.</p><p>Part of you wants to jump his bones—snatch the prize that he dangles in front of you and put an end to your suffering. <em>Yet</em>, you hold on to the threadbare scraps of your dignity. Ezra has his own set of rituals and well placed moves and disrupting them could very well work against you.</p><p>You curse your impatience.</p><p>It’s well into the night when he finally sets aside the aurelac polisher. The whirr of the machine clicks off and it feels like there’s somehow an oxygen leak in here, making the room spin. It’s probably just your anxiety—bubbling and seeping through the splinters of your frustration. Your head rolls to the side as you watch him unfold his legs, roll to his feet and stand with a soft grunt.</p><p>Ezra pads over to the little radio in the corner, busted and repaired countless times, and pinch the nob between his forefinger and thumb. Soft music crackles from the speakers—much too distorted to hear what they say—but music nonetheless. He meanders to the foot of your bed.</p><p>“Would you care for a dance, Spitfire?” You study Ezra’s outstretched hand, the dirt under his fingernails and in the lines of his palms, then up his forearm. From there it’s an easy jump to the patchy beard and the silvery scar that distorts with the inviting line of his dazzling smile.</p><p>You both know your next excuse is just a silly front, but you say it regardless. “I-I don’t know how to dance.”</p><p>“Fortunately for you, you’re lookin’ at a two time champion of the Turkey Trot Tourney.”</p><p>You giggle and let your hand slip into his calloused palm. “That <em>can’t</em> be real.”</p><p>“Realer than water is wet,” Ezra affirms, tugging you to the forefront of the tent. “Now c’mon, Spitfire—indulge me.”</p><p>A plastic doll has more tact than you when it comes to dancing. You don’t know where to put your hands—over his bicep? Too awkward. His hip? Seems <em>rude</em>. In your struggle you end up <em>freezing, </em>tensing as his large hand curls around your waist.</p><p><em>And</em>, to top it all off—the music cuts out and all you’re left with is your strange mockery of a waltz. Before you can weasel out of this one and mope around for the remainder of the night, he tightens his hold and shakes his head.</p><p>“I could sing,” he proposes. “Or, we shall simply dance to the sonorous beating of our hearts.”</p><p>“I’ve heard your singing voice—a monkey could do better.” You tease. “I wanna keep my eardrums intact, thank you.”</p><p>“You <em>wound</em> me,” Ezra cries in mock offense. “Though, I suppose you’re right. A light hum, perhaps.”</p><p>Even with his <em>impeccable</em> three count waltz he conjures, it isn’t enough to cure your two left feet. You’re more suited to stand <em>still</em>. </p><p>“You’re stiffer than a sheet of steel, girlie. <em>Relax</em>.” His warm laugh reverberates through his sternum. “Like <em>this</em>—“</p><p>Your eyebrows shoot into your hairline at the feel of his fingers hooking through your belt loops and jerking your hips closer. Your chin knocks into his chest and you step on his toes, but he brushes it off with a goodnatured grin. Pressed this close to his body you’ve got no choice other than to lean on him to keep yourself from tripping. You don’t mind. It saves you the embarrassment of actually having to try and match his skill.</p><p>Putting aside the fact that you’re basically no better than a child having their parent guide them by resting their little feet on top of their shoes—this is…<em>nice</em>. You both smell a bit like sweat and the earthy scent of wet leaves and freshly turned dirt, and <em>yes—</em>it’s cheesy—something straight out a two star romance novel, but there’s nothing in this galaxy you’d trade out for this moment.</p><p>The tip of his nose skims your cheek, his steady breathing warm against your skin, tickling the peach fuzz over your jaw and neck. His swaying slows to a gentle rock as the song he hums low in your ear reaches its bittersweet end—but there’s no need to dread the silence that follows. The rhythmic rise and fall of his diaphragm grasp the ends of the melody while the jump of his heart carries the beat. It beckons sweetly to the celestial hymn your soul croons, tempting you to join him with lovesick eyes and lips that taste sweeter than blackberry jam on a summer night’s eve.</p><p>Your breath seizes up tight in your lungs as he tilts his head and presses a whisper of a kiss over the arch of your cheekbone. The syllables of your name breathed into your ear tickle the baby hairs growing there—tearing through each and every flimsy wall you built to keep Ezra <em>out</em>.</p><p>“<em>Kiss me</em>,” he says, and the universe swallows you whole as your lips collide onto his.</p><p>He treats it the same way as he would a dance—light and airy. A gentle crest before the stomach flipping fall as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss. </p><p>You don’t care when Ezra pulls you onto the grubby floor so he can tug you over his lap. You can’t <em>bother</em> to worry about the dirt that stains your knees when the tickle of his mustache and the slick touch of his tongue on your bottom lip clouds your senses. He groans and cups your jaw, holding open your mouth to drag his tongue along the length of yours. You nearly dissolve as he tempts you take a tase of him. You whine and shudder as he purses his lips and lightly sucks on your tongue before you both part for precious air.</p><p>Ezra drags his teeth over your bottom lip as you both pant for air. He slips his calloused hands beneath your tank top, rids you of it then peels his shirt off as well. Your eyes do a slow sweep of his exposed chest, enticing you to lean forward and steal a taste. You press soft nibbles and teasing kisses over his chest and push a hand into his shoulder, urging him to fall flat against the floor.</p><p>Goosebumps rush over his stomach as you lick a trail down to his navel and circle around it. You glance up expectantly once you bump into the waistband of his pants. He’s got himself propped up on his elbows, his sharp eyes glittering with hazy arousal. “I’ll…uh…let you fuck my mouth if you want.”</p><p>It’s like tossing jetfuel over a bonfire. Ezra lets loose a string of curses and rolls his head back onto his shoulders, exposing the long strip of his throat. “<em>Fuck—</em>you can’t—can’t just <em>say</em> that to me.”</p><p>“Why not?” You challenge. His legs jerk as your hand cups his stiffening cock through his pants. “I’d let you cum there too.” </p><p>“Seven <em>Hells</em>, girl—“ Ezra barks, jerking his head up to meet your eyes. “You keep talkin’ like that and I’ll be needin’ to replace these pants.”</p><p><em>Fuck</em>—wouldn’t that be a sight? You flash him a devilish grin and hook your fingers around the waistband. You pull, revealing the dips of his groin and the delicious length of his cock. You suck a hickey onto the fragile skin above the crease of his thigh and nudge his thighs wider to accommodate your shoulders. Your fingers sweep inward and circle around the thick base—he’s already pulsing and flushed a rosy brown—it practically <em>begs</em> to be cradled in the soft warmth of your mouth. Ezra’s hand flies forward and tangles his fingers into your hair as the flat of your tongue touches the tip of his cock.</p><p>“<em>Shit</em>—“ He abruptly stops you with a gentle sigh of your name. “I’m flattered…and it physically <em>pains</em> me to say it, but…I’d rather entertain with another dancin’ lesson, so to speak.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” You coo, slipping the entire tip of him into the forgiving, wet heat of your mouth. He grunts, his cock jumping as you hollow your cheeks and <em>suck</em>. Ezra struggles to catch his breath for a second, his will bending and straining at his options. Fucking your mouth or pussy—either way it’ll feel <em>good</em>.</p><p>With another swear and involuntary twitch of his hip, he nods and holds steady on his choice. You lean back and wipe the corner of you mouth. It’s no skin off your back, either way arousal ricochets down your spine, hotter than any wildfire and burning low in your belly. Ezra sits up onto his knees and eases your back against the ground. Your legs fall open around his hips as you arch into the warmth of his palms that skirt up your ribcage to grope your breasts. </p><p>“Sweetheart, I’ve been craving you for an eon,” he whispers, delighting in the way you gasp as he rolls your nipple between his fingers. “I promised myself I’d take my sweet time picking you apart—find what makes you <em>sing—“</em></p><p>Ezra pitches forward and runs his teeth over the stiffened peak of your nipple. You jolt, the brief panic mixing and heightening the burning need between your legs. Your orgasm from the night before hadn’t been anywhere <em>close</em> to satisfying that itch—just a quick release that now somehow makes everything <em>brighter, </em>like floodlights through a windshield. You squirm and rock your hips up, your cunt clenching around nothing. It <em>aches—</em> </p><p>“But—“ Ezra continues, sinking his teeth into the soft tissue right over the swell of your breast. “I’m <em>impatient</em>.”</p><p>You squeak as his fingers hook around your shorts and <em>yank. </em>He helps you bend your knee to take them off, whispering praise under his breath as he sees you in your entirety. Your arousal burns bright, staining your cunt with sticky wetness that Ezra’s hungry eyes linger on the longest.</p><p>“Ezra,” you groan. You reach up to grab at his length, but he’s quicker. He clicks his tongue and snatches your wrist, pinning it with ease. “<em>Ezra—</em>p-please. I can’t—“</p><p>His other hand weasels between your thighs, touching the very tips of his fingers to your throbbing clit. You whine and clench your jaw—the pleasure is so <em>raw—</em>unrefined electricity that crackles with deadly promises. The pressure is so light—a bit mortifying how well Ezra has already read into your movement and little noises.</p><p>It’s like getting the breath knocked out the second he bears down a bit more on your clit, drawing meticulous circles, each completion sending a shockwave of tightly woven ecstasy through each and every nerve. You nearly <em>sob </em>as his fingers slip away.</p><p>“<em>My, </em>you look absolutely <em>ravishing</em>…” Ezra curls over you and tempts you into a deep kiss. You cry into his mouth as two of his fingers begin circle your dripping cunt. They’re <em>thick a</em>nd still not<em> enough. Y</em>our hips stutter as your cunt easily accepts his fingers, the heel of his palm slotting perfectly against your pussy to stimulate your clit.</p><p>Fucking hell you think you see <em>stars—</em>literal supernovas that form and collide into brilliant stardust as Ezra rocks his hand into you—the crook of his fingers the perfect angle to catch something demolishing inside you.</p><p>“Let me hear you cum for me,” he whispers, and it’s equivalent to striking a match to TNT.</p><p>Your body seizes up <em>tight</em> as you soar, skidding off the edge only to plummet so fast and so <em>hard </em>that tears prick the corner of your eyes. He stamps kisses over your cheeks and pets you hair purring wicked praise and adoration as you arch—your mouth parted in a silent cry as you cum and crumble into his hands.</p><p>You wouldn’t be surprised if the world ended when you open your eyes—you’ve been brought within an inch of your life and he’s already gearing up to go again. “Such a good girl, aren’t you?”</p><p>Impatient, just like he self diagnosed, he grabs himself at the base and runs the tup of himself through your soaking folds. Each stroke against your still throbbing clit makes you buckle into yourself, but the angle that your knees are propped over his hips only allows for you to open <em>wider</em>. </p><p>Ezra pauses and reaches forward to cup your cheek. His thumb scrapes over your cheekbone. “Tell me, Spitfire…you want this right? We can stop if—“</p><p>Oh, <em>fuck </em>no. Kind of him to ask even after witnessing you whine and cum over his fingers but—<em>no</em>. “Fuck me Ezra—I <em>need </em>you<em>—“</em></p><p>He breathes out a sigh of relief and silences the rest of your pleas with a dazzling kiss. “Alright, alright—no need to cry yourself into a stupor. I’ll give you what you need.”</p><p>Ezra runs the blunt head of his cock through your folds, slicking himself up with your arousal. You mewl and harpoon your nails into the flesh of his forearm as the wide tip of him pushes into your entrance—he shudders as you clench and wiggle. It doesn’t <em>hurt, </em>but he’s certainly not <em>small</em>, in any sense of the word. You’ll feel him for days as your cunt swallows inch after inch.</p><p>You both groan as he finally bottoms out. His jaw his clenched tight as sweat beads at his hairline—Stars <em>above,</em> he’s a sight, struggling not to loose control the second he’s buried inside of you. Your own impatience tickles up your spine, tugging at the seams of your being until all you can focus on his how Ezra <em>isn’t</em> moving. You gyrate your hips in tiny, almost imperceptible motions, and squeeze around him.</p><p>“Sweet girl, I—“ A ragged moans severs his words as your gentle rocking tilts into needy jolts. At this angle it’s difficult to fuck yourself onto his cock, but the measly thrusts are meant to <em>tempt</em> him. “I-It’s been ages—I-I won’t last very long.”</p><p>You don’t <em>care—</em></p><p>You dig the heel of your foot into the small of his back and grab at his sculpted shoulders—and <em>there</em> we go. Ezra snarls your name, hooks his hands under the globes of your ass and pulls his cock nearly all the way out only to slam back in. There’s no time to adjust before Ezra sets a pace, desperate and rabid. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end after being denied for what seems like a millennia. Ezra’s shifts, widening his knees to sink lower onto your body—his soft hair tickles your throat as his staggered exhales burn hot over your skin.</p><p>Ezra turns his head to steal a kiss. “You feel fuck—fucking <em>divine</em>. Wanna feel you cum around me. S-squeezed so fucking hard around my fingers—“</p><p>You choke out a groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter. Electric heat sears down each vertebrae in your spine, scorching through each and every veins with the virulent brilliance of a wildfire. <em>Shit</em>, this is gonna destroy you.    </p><p>Ezra’s hand sneaks between your bodies and rubs tight, little circles over you swollen clit. There’s barely any build up to your orgasm—just a blinding surge of ferocious warmth that knocks you off your feet and steals away all the air left in your lungs. Your nails dig into Ezra’s back as you shake and grapple for a foothold in your own reality—the steady warmth of his body a much needed anchor for the madness that threatens to drown you.</p><p>His soft, wet kisses morph into little pricks of his teeth as his hips stutter and struggle to keep a definitive pattern. His curses string together and blur into nonsensical noises and loose tongue admittances that are comparable to moving inches from an imploding star. </p><p>“Where can—can I?”</p><p>You yank his fingers against the little bump on your inner hip. Everyone at the Academy was mandated to receive the implant. “<em>Safe</em>—I’m safe.”</p><p>Overstimulation bites at your nerves, but with a gentle pull to the soft strands of hair on the back of his neck and a sweet whisper of his name, he bursts. His moan jumps up a pitch as his eyes slam shut and buries his face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder as he cums. He’s shuddering your arms as his hips erratically jerk, hot spurts of his release coating your insides and beginning to leak over the flooring.</p><p>Ezra nips at your skin and it’s the vey first time you’ve rendered him <em>speechless</em>. He says not a word as his movements come to a stop—choosing to lie over your boneless self, seemingly until you <em>ask</em> him to move. It’s comfy like this, and as your fingers run through the messy sweep of his hair you decide that this is your most favorite place in the entire galaxy.</p><p>You hold each other close for the hours to come. There may be no maddening glory left in your intertwined lives—you are both tragedies of starfire and flesh, of unholy beginnings of blood and broken bones—and that’s <em>enough</em>. </p><p>The galaxy is sempiternal, vast, and unyielding. But you’re just lucky enough to witness the grace of a shooting star that is his heart.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>www.jangofctts.tumblr.com</p></blockquote></div></div>
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